


Oil

by LdotRage



Series: EliHec Week 2019 [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: (briefly) - Freeform, Angst, Body Horror, Canonical Character Death, EliHec Week, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Possession, Self-Hatred, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Vomiting, but i'm late :(, but um, for anyone, for what that's worth, its. not a very fun time, there is a slightly hopeful ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 02:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18401456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LdotRage/pseuds/LdotRage
Summary: Durandal takes control of his body, thrusting itself into the dragon's chest, and Eliwood wakes up screaming.





	Oil

**Author's Note:**

> I've been agonizing over this for months. Enormous segments have been purged, then rewritten, then purged again, then copy-pasted back in. The cursor has hovered over a single word for hours on end. I've deleted a comma; stared intensely at the screen for several minutes. Replaced the comma. And the ending still doesn't feel right.  
> But I already missed EliHec week, so you're getting this anyway. Despite everything, I'm proud of this.
> 
> who's ready to suffer

Durandal was heavier than he’d hoped and lighter than it looked.

The grip was burning hot beneath his fingers; his palms went slick with sweat almost immediately upon touching it. It was enormous, and, when he lifted it, the blade extended a good four feet ahead of him. For as long as it was, though, it was almost eerily lightweight―it felt as if the blade was made of wood, not metal. Heavy, but not as heavy as it should have been.

It was so different from his signature weapon, both in a superficial sense―one was a large, robust broadsword, the other was a flimsy one-handed rapier―and on a deeper level. It was enormous and ostentatious where his rapier was slim and subtle; ruthless and imposing where his rapier was dignified and reserved. Completely different weapons, completely different fighting styles; Durandal was all vicious two-handed slashes, rather than his usual precise thrusts and lunges. Really, it wasn’t suited for him at all.

Wielding the Blazing Blade was, at once, easier than he’d expected and so, so much worse than he could’ve possibly imagined.

It should have been nearly impossible for him to use, with its sheer size and its unceasing heat, and it  _ was _ impossible―but, at the same time, it was far too easy. His arms strained under its weight, each attack foreign and unfamiliar, but it moved with him effortlessly, completely without his consent. As if the sword was simply moving on its own. He exerted no energy and became aware of each attack only after it had happened.

It felt as though the sword had possessed him, maneuvering his body like an empty puppet and completely overriding his input. It felt as though he was constantly on the verge of losing his balance, except for the fact that the sword was forcing him to remain doggedly upright. It felt as though the sword might fly out of his sweaty palms at any moment―and, at the same time, as if he couldn’t possibly wrest his hands from its hilt, no matter how hard he tried.

Durandal’s power left him dizzy and winded, unable to draw air to his lungs. It cleaved through the phantoms that had guarded it as easily as tissue paper, and he saw himself attached to it―hands wrapped around the grip; perfect form―but he had little, if any, control. More than anything, he was a spectator, watching the show and marveling at the slaughter; riding the heady rush of adrenaline that came with each kill.

It was... strange. Surreal. Invigorating, in a way. Almost intoxicating. Like a mixture of the triumphant feeling that came when he won a difficult fight and the awe that filled his chest when he watched Hector or Marcus or Lord Pent dominate a battlefield. He didn’t have enough room left in his skull to be wary of his own lack of control. He hardly had enough room to think when his brain was stuffed full of cotton and adrenaline and fire.

Then he saw the dragon at the end of the tunnel, turquoise scales shimmering in the dim light, and his heart stuttered.

He knew what happened next.

_ No, _ he tried to say, but Durandal’s power wrapped vicelike around his throat, and no noise escaped. Against his will, he dispatched of the two remaining spirits like common pests, and his legs began to carry him down the path, movements smooth and oiled and inhuman. He watched himself heave Durandal up before him, poised to attack, as his pace quickened from a fast walk to an all-out run. Flames danced almost imperceptibly along the edge of the blade.

The dragon did not move. It was a still image, superimposed onto the landscape like a paper cutout plastered over an oil painting. His blood screamed in his veins, heart pounding out a staccato rhythm of  _ kill, kill, kill,  _ and Durandal raised in his hands, pointed directly at the dragon’s motionless body.  _ No,  _ he tried again, frantically, but, if he made a noise at all, it was drowned out by the sound of dirt crunching under his boots.

The dragon took a staggering step towards him, weight lurching. For an instant, he could swear that it vanished and Ninian took its place, laughing softly, her gentle, patient smile turned towards him as she twirled into the first steps of her dance.

Eliwood tried to scream.

He was well within striking range, now. His body skidded to a stop, boots scratching against the ground as he crouched down low and thrust Durandal in front of him with a yell that was not his own. The dragon took a single step back, flapping its wings to regain balance, like a child pinwheeling his arms to keep from falling over.

Durandal itched for the kill.

If he could move. If he could do  _ anything. _ If he could  _ just. let. go. _ Glass walls separated him from his body, impenetrable and soundproof; his limbs moved of their own volition, and he watched them, unable to intervene. Durandal did what it wished, and Eliwood was helpless against its whims; held captive within his traitorous body; prisoner to his own feeble bones.

The sword sunk into the dragon’s chest and exited Ninian’s back.

He couldn’t scream.

Blood cascaded down the blade and over his hands, as hot as the Blazing Blade itself, or even hotter. Ninian’s body crumpled easier than parchment, her jaw unhinging and her mouth falling open in a silent, macabre scream; her eyes little more than black holes in her head; her skin sizzling and popping like butter in the pan.  _ No,  _ Eliwood tried to cry, but his body was petrified, frozen solid.

Still,  _ still, _ he could do  _ nothing, _ even now that the spirit of the sword had vacated his body; it had left little more than a stone husk behind. A useless hollow statue with a pathetic little soul trapped inside, beating against the glass walls, trying to scream himself hoarse with lungs he didn’t have and a tongue that wouldn’t budge.

He couldn’t move; he couldn’t speak; he couldn’t  _ scream; _ and he should have known―his freedom had been forfeit from the moment he was fool enough to draw Durandal from its sheath.

Ninian’s fingers scrabbled at his collar, clawing hard enough to rend flesh, but, instead of blood, fire poured out of his veins, consuming Ninian’s trembling arms and turning them to charcoal. Her gaping void of a mouth opened further, and a sound like a banshee’s cry echoed throughout the cavern, agonized and betrayed and vengeful.

Now that it had been unleashed, the fire under his skin strained to break free everywhere else, bursting out of his chest cavity and licking up his legs and dribbling out the corners of his mouth. Ninian’s corpse was nearly blackened by now, crumbling apart with a sickening noise like meat tearing off of bone―her head fell against his burning chest, hair turning to ash, scorched body contorting around the sword, melting like liquid, and, and―

―Black flesh became black armor and sea green became deep blue, and Hector looked up into his eyes, sinking down onto the blade until Durandal was buried up to the hilt in his chest, and he mouthed something that might’ve been Eliwood’s name, or a plea, or an accusation, except that it just came out as a choked, wet gurgle and a mouthful of blood that turned into oil halfway to the floor.

Eliwood screamed.

The feeling came back to him all at once, like a waterfall of pitch slamming onto his head, and his body jolted with a desperate gasp for air. Seized with panic and frantic to escape Hector’s lifeless judgment, he tried to pull away, but he couldn’t―

He wasn’t on his feet anymore, he realized faintly; he was writhing on the ground, entangled within some sort of cocoon―

Something touched him from the side and he thrashed, trying to scream once more but lacking the oxygen for more than a quiet, choked cry. He rolled until his shoulder was beneath him, and then he was on his chest, mouthing breathless pleas hysterically into the dirt―

It was fabric, not dirt―where had the dirt gone?―

Like a wild animal caught in a trap, he struggled frantically in the suffocating confines of the cloth wrapped around him―that’s what it was: cloth, just like the cloth beneath him―bedsheets?―but it was no use. He only seemed to become further ensnared with each movement, his lungs constricted and his flailing limbs held tight against his sides.

Another terrified cry left his mouth, but the fabric swallowed it, turning it into a muffled, pathetic moan like a child crying against his mother’s breast― _ No, no, Hector, _ he sobbed incomprehensibly past his own rising bile and gasps for breath,  _ gods, no, no, please, no― _

Something grabbed him―hands, clamping down on his shoulder and his side, fingers icy cold and burning hot against his writhing body,  _ nonononono― _

Eliwood bellowed some mix of Hector’s name and St. Elimine’s, the word losing coherence even before it was stifled by the cloth against his lips.

His body twisted like a worm beneath the lure, lashing out with tangled limbs, and he felt the blows connect with solid flesh, but he couldn’t escape from the hands grasping at his prone form―yanking him off of the ground― _ no, no, no, he had to get to Hector― _

Hands clamping down around his shoulders, arms hooking underneath his body―he was held tight within some trap, completely immobilized by fabric and disembodied limbs,  _ can’t move, can’t speak, stop, please stop! _ and he didn’t even try to scream this time. He just babbled incoherently past tears, trying to wrench his arms free― _ can’t move, can’t scream, can’t stop, please, the sword, it just moved on its own, please, no, I’m sorry, I’m― _

The tacky fabric clung to his skin, damp with spit and sweat, as he was flipped onto his back,  _ no no no, get away, _ and he cried “Hector!” with his last remaining breath, jerking free of the unknown hold, his shoulder and back hitting the floor hard.

A noise; there was a noise that he couldn’t distinguish, and, other than that, all was silent; he couldn’t even hear the roaring flames or Durandal’s demands for blood. All he could hear was his own heartbeat and his own frantic struggling and another noise which he couldn’t identify―

Fingers scrabbled across his body like huge, skittering spiders, climbing up towards his neck―the power of Durandal clenching tight around his throat, strangling his voice;  _ if he could scream; if he could resist; if he could beg Durandal or anyone for mercy― _

He tried to cry out again, but there was nothing left in his lungs; just fire licking up his insides, threatening to burst out and burn him to a crisp―

Hands hooked under the cloth around his body, icy hot against his bare skin,  _ no, don’t touch me, it burns, you’ll burn,  _ and―a crushing weight settled atop his chest for the briefest of moments, driving everything from his lungs except for the oil― _ the corpse, the bodies, dragging us down, you did this you did this the sword just moved on its own― _

_ RIIIIIP― _

Cold air rushed in to meet him as the fabric was torn away, exposing his burning body, like the skin of an orange peeling off to let the rotten fruit ooze through. The weight vanished from on top of him; his arms flailed, and his knuckles scraped something solid, his elbow banging against the floor―he could move,  _ he could move he could move he could move, he could still do something, he could save them, he could _

He thrashed free of the ripped cloth, scrambling back on weak, shaking arms, wide eyes darting around the room. He was beginning to adjust to the darkness, just a bit, but it was all still cast heavy with shadow; just vague shapes and figures that swirled nebulously in his muddled mind. Air clawed its way into his chest, then left his lips in a desperate cry― “Hector, please,  _ Hector―” _ and he rolled onto his stomach in a pinwheel of limbs, fighting his way to all fours.

Over the pounding in his head and his own disjointed speech, he barely heard the response (that noise again; that same noise from before): a gravelly rasp of “I’m here―I’m  _ right here, Eliwood―” _

(Blood and oil spilling from his lips; condemnation and betrayal mingling with the agony on his face; mouth moving in a soundless question, a wounded accusation;  _ “Eliwood, why?”) _

Choking on a sob, Eliwood wheeled around, trying to pinpoint the sound of the familiar voice. “Hector,” he gasped, lunging forward, overbalancing, landing hard, and trying to scurry back onto his knees; “Hector, please, I’m sorry, no no no, don’t go, I’m sorry―”

_ “Eliwood―”  _ that voice responded, hoarse and urgent, but still alive, still alive,  _ no oil, _ and Eliwood scrambled forward, reaching frantically―he touched cool fabric, wrinkled around solid muscles―no armor for some reason, _ doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter― _ he seized two fists of Hector’s clothes and yanked with all his might, unbalancing them both.

They collided in a flurry of wayward limbs; Hector made a surprised, pained noise, and Eliwood climbed up on top, shoving Hector onto the ground, tearing his shirt open with enough force to send buttons flying, hands scrabbling across his chest in search of an open wound―

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he was saying now, fire oozing from his eyes and searing down his cheeks as his sweaty palms slid against Hector’s bloodied skin;  _ he’s alive, not a corpse; he’s still alive―  _ “Hector, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t―I couldn’t―it just moved on its―”

_ Idiot, idiot, that doesn’t matter, don’t waste time, just stop the bleeding, quench the fire, save him save him save _

“Eliwood,” Hector gasped out, wrapping one hand around Eliwood’s arm and seizing a handful of his shirt in the other, “stop―”

“Hector―” There was nothing better to say― “I’m sorry―” It didn’t matter, it didn’t  _ matter, _ but Hector had to  _ know, _ because dying at Eliwood’s hand was bad enough; he needed to at least  _ understand―  _ “I didn’t―the sword, it―it just moved on its own, please―you have to believe me―” It didn’t matter, but he needed to  _ know―  _ “I didn’t mean to―I was just―” He was just too weak; too malleable; too foolish to leave the damn Blazing Blade alone― “Hector, please, I didn’t mean to―I’m sorry, I’m sorry―the sword just moved on its own―”

“Eliwood, stop!”

A hand clamped over his mouth, turning the rest of his sentence into an elongated grunt, and his guts seized like they’d been struck by lightning.

White-hot panic exploded behind his eyeballs. Automatically, he tried to jerk away, but Hector’s hand followed him, and then the other hand wrapped around the back of his head, trapping it between the two, and he couldn’t move; he couldn’t speak; he couldn’t―

_ “No!” _ he tried to say. Both hands latched onto Hector’s wrist, yanking desperately, and, without his arms to steady him, he scrambled to balance on his knees, bare toes sliding across the floor. In the dark, his eyes met Hector’s, barely visible through the thick shadows, and he pleaded deliriously into the other man’s hand, even though he knew Durandal wouldn’t listen―

Not Durandal,  _ Hector;  _ this was different; this was different―he could struggle, now―he could scream―he could  _ fight― _

In the midst of his frantic pleas, Eliwood clamped his teeth down  _ hard _ on the meat of Hector’s palm.

A startled yelp, a pained hiss―Eliwood was harshly shoved back by one large hand, his teeth clacking together. He landed on his side, and the breath left his body in a fractured  _ whoosh. _ Clawing at his throat― _ can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t― _ Eliwood let out a choked cry, struggling onto his hands and knees.

Fight,  _ fight,  _ he could  _ fight;  _ he could  _ do something, _ he could  _ move  _ he could  _ breathe  _ he could  _ scream  _ he could―

No,  _ Hector,  _ save him,  _ save him―no, please;  _ oil on his lips, fire creeping up his corpse;  _ save him,  _ I’m sorry,  _ help him,  _ I didn’t mean to,  _ “Eliwood, why?”  _ not his fault not his―

Stop,  _ stop,  _ stop it―the sword―Durandal was moving, Durandal was―he had to save her―he had to save him―Ninian, Father, Hector,  _ Hector― _

A sharp noise snapped him back to his senses, and―

He could see.

Eliwood blinked against the sudden light; it was dim enough not to hurt, but he cringed anyway, shrinking back like a kicked dog. Reeling, he glanced around rapidly, searching for the sword―for Ninian―for  _ Hector― _

This wasn’t the cave.

Durandal was gone.

Eliwood belatedly realized that he was breathing heavily, and his heart was rabbit-fast in his chest. He was hunched over himself, palms flat on the ground, and he could taste blood.

This was his tent. No―blue canvas; sparse belongings―Hector’s tent. His chest felt tight and his head felt hot; his entire body was weak and lethargic, and his limbs trembled from the effort of bearing his meager weight. There were tears searing on his cheeks and prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Durandal. Ninian.  _ Hector. _

This was wrong. It was all wrong.

There were no bodies.

Swiping clumsily at his watery eyes, he took the steadiest breath he could manage and tried to get his bearings.

He found Hector a few feet away, halfway propped up off of the ground, with a lit candle haphazardly clutched in one fist. Eliwood’s vision was too blurry to make out his face. His shirt was torn open, hanging loosely from his shoulders, and he was clutching his free hand to his chest like it was injured.

Injured.  _ Injury.  _ The sword; the dragon; Ninian; Hector―Eliwood’s head spun, and he let out a strangled, uncomprehending noise, stretching his hand out as if to test whether this was real. He had to make sure this wasn’t just a phantom, as incorporeal as the ghosts who’d tried to stop him from reaching Durandal―who’d tried to save him from his own folly―

Hector moved to meet him, leaving the candle behind. “Don’t,” Eliwood managed to gasp out, even as he continued to drag himself forward. “Don’t strain yourself―Hector, you’re hurt―”

“No,” Hector cut in, his voice firm and certain, “I’m not.”

It didn’t make sense; none of this made any sense, and Eliwood made another wordless noise of confusion, reaching out to touch Hector’s chest. Hector, for some reason, allowed him to do so―he even moved his arm away so Eliwood could see his entire torso. As if he’d already forgotten that Eliwood had buried Durandal up to the hilt in his body and burned the corpse to a crisp―

The universe itself seemed to have forgotten, because there was  _ nothing there; _ just smooth skin, marred by only the occasional faint scar; damp with sweat, not blood. Hector was a bit warm, sure, but not seared; not blackened; not corpse-cold.

The sword―it had―but there were no stab wounds, no  _ burns, _ and Eliwood opened and closed his mouth helplessly. “I don’t understand―”

“It’s alright.” Hector’s voice was shaking minutely, but there was no hesitation in his words. Slowly, he wrapped one hand around the back of Eliwood’s head, slung the other around his shoulders, and pulled him close. “It’s alright.”

Clawing for traction against the tattered sheets, Eliwood tried to pull away, but Hector was stronger than him even when he wasn’t shaky and faint, and he was helpless to do anything but squirm as he was crushed against Hector’s chest. With effort, he managed to wriggle his fingers between their flush bodies, stammering, “Hector, please―your wound, your―”

“There is no wound,” Hector interrupted, pulling him even closer and inadvertently pinning his hands between them. “Eliwood, I’m  _ fine;  _ there’s no wound. It was just a dream.”

Eliwood sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath. Just a dream?―No, no, no; it wasn’t a dream; he  _ knew _ it wasn’t; he  _ knew― _ “No,” he said out loud, struggling in Hector’s arms with renewed desperation, “Durandal―the dragon― _ Ninian―” _

For a moment, Hector froze, and Eliwood was certain that he would drop dead right there, the wound blossoming across his chest anew. Then he let out a slow, shaky exhale, cradling Eliwood’s head against his shoulder. “That happened,” he croaked, “that’s real, but―I’m fine. I’m―you didn’t kill me, Eliwood. I’m right here.”

No. No, no―he needed to save Hector―he needed to stop the bleeding, or Hector would die―the dragon had become Ninian, and Ninian had become Hector, and the sword hadn’t changed roles―

“No,” was all Eliwood could choke out. “No, no, no―”

“It’s okay. It’s okay―look,  _ look.” _ Hector loosened his grip just slightly, then slipped his own arm between them, grabbing Eliwood’s hand and pressing it more firmly against his chest. “No sword. Just me. See? No sword, no wound, no blood. I’m okay. It was just a dream.”

“No―” There  _ was _ no sword, but― “No―”

“Eliwood,  _ please,  _ just―shut up,  _ shut up  _ and  _ listen!” _ With a sharp, frustrated noise, Hector tugged Eliwood’s head down against his collar, pressing his ear right where the wound should have been.

Eliwood scrambled for balance, his body crumpled awkwardly into Hector’s arms, but he couldn’t summon up the air or words to speak, because it was right there―he didn’t even have to listen; it was  _ right there, _ pressed up against his ear, distinct and unquestionable―the strong, steady, slightly-too-fast  _ thump thump thump  _ of Hector’s heart, thrumming nonchalantly in his chest as if he’d never died at all.

Suddenly, Eliwood’s mouth was very dry. His head was pounding, and he barely registered the sudden rebellion of his twisting stomach. A moment later, he recognized the sickeningly sweet taste gathering at the back of his tongue.

“Hector,” he said faintly, trying to pull out of the embrace, “I’m―”

“It’s alright,” Hector repeated for the dozenth time.

Eliwood shook his head. “No,” he gasped with renewed urgency, wedging his arms between them, “I―I’m gonna―”

Too late. He coughed, choked, and then lost his lunch all over them both.

Immediately, Hector gagged and scrambled away; without his support, Eliwood tumbled bonelessly to the ground. He hadn’t the strength to hold himself upright, so he landed on his knees and elbows, one hand partially submerged in the puke, which was disgusting enough to bring up another round of heaves.

He was just barely lucid enough to move his arms out of the way as he hurled, but he didn’t have the spare brainpower for much more than that. The rest of his energy was dedicated to keeping himself from collapsing.

When the second wave of nausea settled, Eliwood coughed and shakily wiped his mouth, though he instantly regretted it when he felt the bile seep through his sleeve. Once he could be reasonably certain he wasn’t about to spew again, he slowly lifted his spinning head, blinking back tears and squinting against the dim light.

Hector had scuttled back into the corner, hand clapped over his mouth and nose to contain his own reflexive gagging. Not only was his nightshirt soiled, some of it seemed to have gotten onto his skin, as well. Judging by the sickened look on his face, this hadn’t escaped his notice, but he made no move to wipe himself off.

The image of Hector’s pale, horrified expression made him think, again, of the dream (and that was all it had been: a pathetic little dream showcasing the pathetic little fears of a pathetic little man). For a moment, he could’ve sworn he saw a trickle of oil on the edge of Hector’s chin.

Then the crushing guilt came upon him, so suddenly and so intensely that he lurched over again, dry heaving violently.

Hector was here. Hector was fine. Hector was alive.

But Ninian―

Ninian was not. Ninian was not fine. Ninian was dead.

He had killed her, and he was a horrible, horrible person for being so  _ glad  _ that it hadn’t been Hector in her place.

The dry heaving continued for a minute longer. Once it was over, Eliwood blearily glanced up again, hoping somewhat selfishly that Hector wasn’t looking; that he wouldn’t bear witness to any more of this shameful display. That was only wishful thinking, of course; Hector rarely averted his eyes from anything, even if it was taking all of his willpower not to puke at the sight. By now, he’d removed his hand from his mouth, so Eliwood had an unobscured view of his features, which were twisted into some mix of sympathy, morbid curiosity, and revulsion.

Logically, Eliwood knew that only the sympathy was directed at him, but seeing such unbridled disgust on Hector’s face instantly summoned a dozen much worse images to the forefront of his mind―Hector wrinkling his nose and scoffing  _ “Gods, get a hold of yourself, man,” _ his eyes boring into Eliwood, judging, accusing; the sword buried into his chest and oil dripping from his lips―

The next round of dry heaves was strong enough to bring tears to his eyes, which conveniently gave him an excuse for the completely unrelated tears already burning on his cheeks.

When the last of the heaves finally subsided, Eliwood was left gasping for breath. Unfortunately, this didn’t quite mask the distinctive sounds of his choked sobs. Against his better judgment, he looked up one last time and met Hector’s eyes, which was a horrible idea, really. The disgust had mostly faded from Hector’s expression, but now he had this sort of compulsory pity on his face, as if Eliwood was the most pathetic thing he’d ever seen, and all Eliwood could do to prove him wrong was stifle another sob and desperately try not to retch again.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out after a long, heavy silence, his voice thick with tears and high enough that it was nearly a whimper. The words were completely insufficient; worse than worthless, really―and he could only imagine how absolutely pitiful he looked, with tears and snot and bile on his face. But there was nothing else to say.

The only alternative was to lay down and pray that Hector would just leave him to his misery―which was very unlikely, he reminded himself, because this was Hector’s tent, not his. He was only here because Hector had generously offered to sleep beside him, since they both knew that, if left to his own devices, Eliwood would stay up all night anticipating the battle against Nergal that awaited them come morning.

Hector, as kind as always, had helped alleviate the burden of Eliwood’s anxiety.

And this was how Eliwood repaid him. With ruined bedsheets and ruined clothes and a ruined night.

Eliwood cringed, fighting down another wave of guilt. “I―I’m sorry,” he said again, shakily trying to push himself onto his feet. He needed to get out of here before he started crying in earnest; Hector  _ hated _ people crying in front of him, and he’d already caused more than enough trouble for one night. More than enough for one lifetime, really, but Hector would probably forgive him in the morning because that was just the kind of person Hector was―

“No, don’t apologize,” Hector hastily interjected, breaking out of his stupor and scrambling to his feet.

Eliwood obediently snapped his jaw shut, swallowing another useless  _ ‘I’m sorry.’ _ His eyes flickered down, and he winced when he saw the mess he’d left at his feet. “I... I’ll clean this up,” he offered weakly after a moment, although he wasn’t honestly sure that he  _ could _ in his current state.

“No, you won’t,” Hector responded immediately, leaving no room for disagreements. “I’ll―I can―hold on, just let me―”

Hector crossed the room in a few short strides, hastily digging through his belongings. Eventually, he scrounged up a washcloth from beneath a pile of weapon maintenance equipment, and, before Eliwood could stop him, he carefully stepped around the disgusting puddles and knelt at Eliwood’s side, reaching out to wipe his face.

The contact was both unexpected and startlingly intimate, and Eliwood flinched back with a humiliating noise that Hector was kind enough to disregard. “I―I can do it,” he said hastily, reaching up to take the cloth, but Hector just caught his wrist and wiped the puke off of his hand, as well.

Their eyes met for a moment. Hector’s face was unyielding. “Let me,” he said, as calm as Eliwood had ever heard him.

Eliwood’s response caught in his throat. After a moment, he just looked down and closed his mouth, his face burning.

The cloth was rough and dry against his skin, but Hector was inordinately gentle as he carefully cleaned all of the filth from Eliwood’s skin. Once that was done, he tossed the soiled cloth aside and instead held out a waterskin, which Eliwood drank from gratefully and greedily, trying to purge the rancid taste from his mouth.

By the time he’d drained the skin and slowly lowered it into his lap, Hector had shrugged off his ruined nightshirt and was now busying himself with rearranging his sleeping pad, which had been knocked askance in the confusion.

Eliwood’s pad was equally disheveled, and the sheets had been shredded to pieces―how Hector had managed to rip them so effortlessly was beyond him. Biting his lip, Eliwood slowly pushed himself onto his feet; when standing up didn’t make him swoon, he took a tentative step forward.

Unfortunately, his limbs were still weak and unsteady, and he quickly lost his balance; he would have tumbled back onto the ground in a heap, had Hector not whirled around and caught him beneath the armpits. “Easy, easy,” he said, carefully lowering Eliwood back onto the ground.

By now, Eliwood’s face felt like it might just catch fire. “I can walk,” he whispered after a moment, though he wasn’t foolish enough to try fighting Hector’s grip.

“You can’t,” Hector responded bluntly, not a hint of judgment in his voice. Then, without giving Eliwood time to retort, he stooped down lower and, with only a single grunt of effort, lifted Eliwood into his arms.

A sharp gasp wrenched itself from Eliwood’s dry throat, and he flailed instinctively, his hand hitting Hector’s cheek with a soft  _ smack.  _ The rush of mortification was immediate as he jerked back. “No―shit, I’m sorry―I didn’t―”

_ “Eliwood.” _

Hector’s voice seemed impossibly loud in the otherwise silent tent, and Eliwood’s words died in his throat. After a brief but tense moment of silence, Hector hoisted Eliwood further up, settling him comfortably against his chest. “It’s fine,” he said, somewhere between desperate and exasperated. “Eliwood, it’s  _ fine.” _

There was no response―Eliwood’s throat felt thick and his mouth dry―but Hector didn’t wait for one. With slow, even steps, he carried Eliwood across the tent, eyes on his feet to assure he didn’t step in anything.

It was only perhaps a ten-second trip, but it seemed to take years. Eliwood very deliberately avoided eye contact the whole time. Eventually, Hector bent down again and carefully deposited him onto a sleeping pad, guiding him down onto his side. It was phenomenally awkward.

As soon as Hector let go of him, Eliwood went limp and slumped bonelessly into the futon, making a valiant effort to become one with the sheets. Abruptly, he realized that this was Hector’s bed, not his―the sheets were still intact, and it wasn’t yet sticky with sweat―but he lacked the energy to protest. He just pressed his face against the pillow as Hector stepped over him and doused the lights.

They were plunged into darkness once again. All Eliwood could hear for a moment was his own breathing; then Hector’s footsteps shuffled back towards him and he held his breath.

A brief, tense second of silence. Hector crouched down, a vague black silhouette against the black backdrop around them. His hand  _ whooshed _ in front of Eliwood’s face, narrowly missing his nose, as he slowly lowered himself onto the sleeping pad beside him.

Eliwood lay deathly still, frozen, like a rabbit staring down a pack of coyotes.

Of course, silence and stillness never lasted long when Hector was around.

A wide palm cupped the back of Eliwood’s neck, and he didn’t flinch so much as quiver. If Hector noticed, he didn’t say anything. He just shifted forward a bit, sliding his other arm across the ground until it slipped beneath Eliwood’s side to tug him closer.

For once in his life, Hector moved slowly, almost tentatively. Still, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was doing. One hand had already moved to the back of Eliwood’s head, starting to pull it towards Hector’s chest; the other was halfway around his shoulders by now, almost-but-not-quite hugging him.

It was quiet. Eliwood could hear Hector’s breathing as well as his own, now. He could make out the barest hint of Hector’s face through the darkness―the subtle shadows of two eye sockets; the broad curve of a jaw; the faint ghost of teeth peeking out from behind parted lips.

An inhale. An exhale.

_ No oil. _

In the dark, Eliwood couldn’t quite find Hector’s mouth with his own. His lips ended up pressed mostly against Hector’s chin, his nose jammed awkwardly against Hector’s cheek, but he’d gotten close enough to feel Hector’s sharp inhale, too quiet to hear.

He lingered for far too long, his mouth pressed motionlessly against Hector’s skin, as he valiantly tried to force the words he couldn’t say directly into Hector’s head.

_ I’m sorry, thank you, I’m pathetic, you’re alive, I was so scared, I love you, I love you, I’m so glad, I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m awful, Gods, I love you so much. _

When he pulled away, his lips scraped against Hector’s stubble. And then, because Eliwood was a weak, weak person, he let his head drop into the crook of Hector’s neck, ear nestled up against Hector’s pulse point, and his eyes slid shut as he greedily drank in the loud  _ thump, thump, thump  _ of Hector’s heart.

Seventeen heartbeats passed before Hector’s arm wrapped around him and Hector’s hand came to the back of his head, and Eliwood wilted around Hector like dying petals curling over the center of a flower, Hector’s heart thrumming a steady lullaby in his ear.

The words he mouthed against that pulse vanished into the darkness, into the silence.

_ I love you. _

_ I love you. _

_ I’m awful. _

**Author's Note:**

> There was initially going to be more. They were gonna go to the bathing tent, Eliwood was gonna have (another) panic attack, they were gonna have a Talk after the kiss, but... this felt better. It was getting way too long.  
> With that said, cutting those 5000 words and replacing them with less than 500 was immensely painful.  
> Hopefully it was worth the wait


End file.
